“Am I getting old?” I continue. “Because my date said it was my age.”
Dr. Lawson’s brows knit as he reaches for my chart.
He scans it, then looks back at me. “You’re twenty-nine.”
“That’s what I told Sage.”
His pen stills. “Sage?”
“Yes.”
“His name was Sage?”
“I know. I ignored all the warning signs.”
“This has nothing to do with your age,” Dr. Lawson says calmly.
“So, I’m not elderly.”
“No. You’re injured.”
“Hot yoga injury.”
“Hot yoga injury,” he agrees. “This looks like acute muscular strain with nerve involvement. Painful, yes. Permanent, no.”
I sink into the mattress with relief. “Oh, thank God.”
“We’ll get imaging to be safe, but I expect rest, medication, and time will do most of the work.”
“I hate all of those things.”
He glances at Emmy and Celeste. “Any significant stress lately?”
“No,” I say instantly.
“She never stops moving,” Celeste says at the same time.
Emmy nods. “She won’t admit it, but she juggles a lot.”
Dr. Lawson studies me. “When something like this happens, it’s often the body’s way of telling us to slow down.”
“I don’t get that luxury. I work and help care for my mom.”
The room goes quiet. Even the drugs can’t float me past that.
“Do you relax?” he asks, pen hovering over the chart.
“Sure. Sometimes I treat myself and go to bed before midnight.”
“That’s not quite what I meant.”
“I also sit down,” I add. “Daily. Sometimes twice.”
“Madison,” he says gently, “you need to make time for yourself because if you don’t slow down, your body will do it for you.”
I scoff.
“For the record,” I say, very seriously, “I am extremely flexible. I just thought that should be said out loud.”
